


The Last Room

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-11
Updated: 2007-10-11
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: After, Bobby pulls him away, wordless. Dean's hands are coated with blood. He wipes them on his jeans, not caring that they're his favorite pair, that they'll stain, that he'll have to buy stain remover and let them sit for a few days, or maybe throw them out, even, if it won't wash.





	The Last Room

After, Bobby pulls him away, wordless. Dean's hands are coated with blood. He wipes them on his jeans, not caring that they're his favorite pair, that they'll stain, that he'll have to buy stain remover and let them sit for a few days, or maybe throw them out, even, if it won't wash. He's gotten damn good at removing blood stains over the years, practicing on his laundry and Dad's, and then on Sam's once Sam was old enough to go on the sorts of hunts that caused bloody clothes. So maybe he'll get the blood out, but maybe he won't. Maybe Sam's blood has some sort of different chemical composition, thicker or darker than normal blood. Maybe it'll go clear through the denim and brand itself onto Dean's skin.

"Hey," Bobby says. "Dean."

"Fuck off," Dean snarls, shoving Bobby's hand off his shoulder. He's shivering—it's colder than he expected, and the rain isn't helping, fucking cold raindrops sliding down the back of his shirt. His other coat's in the trunk. He thinks about walking around the side of the car, digging out his keys, popping the lock, sorting through the shit he tossed in there, haphazard, in too much of a hurry to get to Sam to worry about packing things neatly. It's like waking up at night, still halfway in a dream, and really having to piss but being too lazy to actually get up and do it, so instead you lie there and imagine getting up and putting up the toilet seat and letting loose, like if you think about it hard enough it'll actually happen. It's like that. Dean thinks maybe he can will his coat into existence.

"We need to get goin'," Bobby says.

"I want to find that knife," Dean says.

Bobby makes a noise. "We don't have _time_ for that, son. That's your brother in the back seat—don't you want to give him a proper burial?"

"No," Dean says. He wants his fucking coat. He goes around to the trunk and shoves his hand in his pocket, looking for his keys, but they aren't there—they're supposed to be in his left pocket, that's where he always keeps them, and if they aren't there he doesn't know _where_ the fuck they are. He'll have to hotwire the car, which is always a pain in the ass, especially when he has to fix it all later. He'd rather just find his fucking keys. Maybe they fell out in the mud, earlier, when he was—when Sam was—maybe he dropped them, is all.

"Dean," Bobby says, and he's holding Dean's keys.

"Did I give those to you?" Dean asks.

"Get in the car," Bobby says. "It's two hours back to my place from here. We got to get on the road."

"And go where," Dean says. Bobby doesn't answer. Dean gets in the car.

***

The whole thing with the pie was just fucking stupid. They'd spent all day fucking, wrapped up in each other in whatever ugly motel room Dean had checked them into, and after that long spent licking the sweat off Sam's belly, Dean needed something to get the taste out of his mouth, before he got drunk on it and never let Sam out of bed again. He'd thought about ordering a pizza, but Sam vetoed that idea with that bitchy lip-press thing he did, and so they struggled into their clothes and drove down the road to the diner. Dean was singing and drumming his hands on the steering wheel, and Sam actually didn't say anything about it for once, kind of smiling to himself while he looked out the window. He had a huge hickey on his neck, right below his ear, and it made Dean feel hot all over to look at it, remembering his mouth against the hot pulse beneath the skin. Everyone who saw them would know what they'd been doing.

He sat there in the driver's seat, watching Sam's ass as he went into the diner. Things were good. Things were fucking _awesome_ : Sam was all well-fucked and sweaty, and Dean figured they'd probably go back to the motel room and eat some pie and fried chicken and then fuck again, maybe. Maybe he'd put Sam face-down on the bed and lick him all over, until Sam was squirming and begging for it, the way he did when he was so strung out that all he could think about was getting Dean's cock inside his ass. And then maybe they'd fall asleep watching Letterman, and in the morning they could fuck in the shower, and then maybe go to the movies or something in the afternoon—not like a date or anything, just that there was that movie that Sam had been talking about for goddamn _weeks_ , and Dean was so sick of hearing about it that he'd be willing to sit through two hours of whiny crying bullshit just to make Sam shut up. Maybe he'd even buy popcorn.

And then his radio started going fuzzy, and he knew then, knew without even having to look up and see the empty windows, no Sam in sight.

***

Bobby lied: it only takes an hour and a half to get back to his house. Dean sits in the passenger seat, sullen, because Bobby doesn't fucking trust him to drive his own goddamn car. As if Dean would ever to anything to endanger his baby. He's driven concussed, bleeding, gut-stabbed, and once with a broken arm, and he's never once driven off the road, or even come close to it. He's an awesome driver. Dad taught him how to drive as soon as he was old enough to reach the pedals, and then Dean taught Sam as soon as Sam stopped bitching long enough to pay attention to Dean's advice about turn signals and the best way to keep the car from spinning out if you had to take a corner faster than was maybe advisable for everyday driving. He'd logged more hundreds of thousands of miles than he can even count or comprehend. The car's been his home for more than twenty years, and he's fucking _offended_ that Bobby thinks he doesn't know how to handle his baby.

"You hungry?" Bobby asks, as they pass a KFC. "Open twenty-four hours."

"No," Dean says. He hates that fucking Colonel.

Bobby's lawn is littered, as always, with various bits of scrap metal, engine parts, and dog toys. The salvage yard's out back, all eight million cars gleaming dully in the early morning light. Dean learned how to fix a car back there, on his back beneath an old Ford station wagon while Bobby or Dad watched over him with a careful eye. He learned how to do an oil change first, easy kid stuff, and then they graduated him to diagnosing engine problems, and then to making actual modifications. He spent a whole summer apprenticed to Bobby, the year after he turned fifteen. Dad grumbled about having to go on hunts by himself, but the whole thing was his idea, something about Dean needing to know how to take care of all of his weapons. Dean was glad to go: Sammy had just turned twelve and was ripe with hormones and angst, and Dean had been desperate to get away from him and his whining.

Bobby turns off the engine. "Let's get him inside," he says.

Dean turns around and looks at Sam, laid out in the back seat. If he doesn't look too closely, he can almost pretend that Sam's still breathing. He's just taking a nap, maybe. Or maybe he's injured, but not too seriously—concussion, or maybe something clawed him in the thigh and Dean doped him up with narcotics to get him to stop bitching about his creamy skin. He's just got his eyes closed. As soon as Dean hauls open the back door, Sam will wake up, sit up. He'll be a little bleary from sleep, blinking and rubbing at his eyes, and that's the best time to get him out of the car and into the house, when he's still limp and tractable. Dean will haul him inside and stitch him up, and maybe they'll have a fight about how Sam needs to be more careful and not put himself in the line of danger, because he might be an eight-foot-tall Sasquatch but he's not fucking _invincible_.

It doesn't happen. He and Bobby get Sam inside, Bobby's hands under Sam's knees and Dean's hands tucked into his armpits, cupped against his ribcage. Sam doesn't breathe. Dean would feel it if he did.

***

The first thing Dean remembers about Sam was the way he'd cry when he was a baby. He was silent for the first two weeks after he was born, barely made a peep, but after that it was like he discovered his lungs and wanted everyone else to know about it, too. He wailed nonstop for the next month, huge, unending screams like a tornado siren going off in the nursery, and then winding down as he tired himself out, but never stopping completely. He didn't sleep well at night, either, and Dean got used to waking up in the dark to the sound of Sammy shrieking his head off.

That was Sam for you: fucking drama queen from the get-go. He got over it after a while, turned into the sort of happy, smiling baby that had women stopping in the grocery store to coo at him, but even that seemed like a ploy for attention—Mom and Dad had been so thrilled that Sammy had finally stopped fucking crying all the time that they'd showered him with attention, kisses and songs and games of horsey. Dean hated him. He wanted Mom and Dad to pay attention to _him_ , like they used to, instead of wasting all their time on some tiny, snotty thing that just crapped its diapers and had to be fed all the time. He learned to suck it up, though. If he held Sammy, ran to get his bottle, Mom would smile at him like she used to, and that was all Dean wanted. A little self-sacrifice was fine as long as he got his mother's attention again.

It took a while, but Sammy won him over eventually, that big, gummy smile that he turned on Dean, heart-stopping. Love wasn't innate. Dean didn't fall head-over-heels with the little asshole the instant he was brought home from the hospital, shrieking, milky creature who displaced Dean as the apple of his parents' eyes. It took months. Love grew in him slowly, like the lima beans Sam planted for a science experiment in third grade: shriveled things in the dark, buried down in the wet soil, but sprouting without any encouragement or care, just because it's what they were made to do.

Sometimes he thought about telling Sam about it—like, _Hey, did you know I hated you when you were a baby?_ It was funny. Ha ha. He always kept his mouth shut, though.

***

It's a stupid cliché, but Sam really does look like he's sleeping, hands folded over his belly. He always sleeps like that, flat on his back and his head turned to one side, usually away from Dean. When they share a bed, he'll start out like that, but at some point in the night he'll curl toward Dean, arm over Dean's waist and legs twined together. Dean hates being the little spoon, but it's not like he's got any control over it; he's _asleep_ , for Christ's sake. So if Sam decides to snuggle with him in the middle of the night, there's nothing he can do about it.

He wishes he'd put a sheet down on the mattress first. Nobody sleeps on a bare mattress, unless they can't afford sheets, and the Winchesters have never been in straits that dire. You don't put a sick person on a bare mattress, or someone who's been injured. You put them on sheets, sometimes more than one sheet, hoping it'll stain the cloth and not seep through onto the mattress.

He wonders if there'll be a stain on the mattress, if blood is still oozing out of the stab wound in Sam's back. He's never tried cleaning a mattress before, but maybe it'll come out with some stain remover. Maybe it'll ruin the thing, though. He hopes Bobby has a spare mattress, because if they have to throw this one out, there won't be a mattress for this bed anymore, just the bare wooden slats on the bed frame. Cleaning mattresses probably isn't much like doing laundry. Laundry, Dean can handle. Maybe he should go wash his jeans now, before the blood sets. Unless it's set already. Unless it's sunk down into his skin, a red tattoo or a birthmark.

"We ought to bury him," Bobby says.

Dean says, "Not yet." He knows about decomposition, roughly how long it takes for a body to start reeking in cold weather versus hot, how the flies come first, and then their eggs, and then maggots. Late spring in South Dakota is still pretty damn cold. They've got a day, maybe two. Sam still looks fine, flesh-colored and whole. Like he's _sleeping_. Like he could get off that damn mattress and walk out the door, smile, eat a sandwich, kiss Dean again.

***

The first time he and Sam fucked, there weren't any hearts or flowers or any girly bullshit like that. Sam probably would've enjoyed it, but Dean held no truck with missionary position, much less _romance_. It was filthy, hot, messy sex, his favorite kind, the two of them crammed in the back seat of the car after a hunt, both of them sweaty and smeared with blood, and Dean had somehow wriggled down into the footwell so he could suck Sam's cock until he begged. It's still one of his favorite jerk-off fantasies, the way Sam had thrown his head back and claws at the seat, the way his thighs had shivered beneath Dean's hands, and the sloppy handjob he'd given Dean afterward, his palm slicked with his own come.

He never thought about Sam like that until after the whole Stanford Incident. Before, Sam had just been his geeky brother, legs too long and nose too big for his face, all hopped up on moral superiority and those German philosophers he liked so much. He was the obnoxious kid who expected Dean to cook for him and bitched when Dean wanted to watch nature documentaries. After, though—after, he was something completely different, like their years of separation had changed him on a molecular level, restructured him from the ground up. They weren't brothers anymore. They had been, and maybe they would be again, but for those first few months with Sam riding shotgun again, they were just two guys who happened to share some DNA.

It's not an excuse, though. By the time they started fucking, after that unpleasant situation where Sam decided he was gonna get on a bus and take himself right back out of Dean's life again, Dean had started thinking of Sam as his brother again. Sam wasn't so different, really—he still liked the same geeky things, and he still hated Dean's music. He still wanted his cheeseburgers with extra lettuce and no tomatoes. ("They're all squishy, Dean. And _moist_.") There were whole parts of him that were still the brother that Dean had cared for and fussed over for years and years. It made it worse. Dean knew what he was doing, he knew the word for it. He just didn't fucking care; still doesn't, never will.

It surprised him that Sam was so into it. Sam would get in the shower with him in the mornings, corner him in restaurant bathrooms, start sucking on his neck when they were supposed to be _quiet_ and _waiting_. Dean'd had a lot of sex in his life, but he'd never gotten laid with so much regularity or enthusiasm. Sam loved taking it up the ass, and he would _moan_ for it, and wriggle around, grunting and ordering Dean to go harder. It made Dean crazy, made him want to hold Sam down and keep him in bed all day.

One time—there was this one time, they were staying at some place in the Adirondacks, and it had a fucking jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. Sam flipped out. He found some bath oil or something, foamed the thing up, and spent the entire afternoon soaking while Dean tried to focus on cleaning his guns instead of thinking about what Sam was doing in there. He knew the exact moment Sam discovered the jets, because Sam let out a startled yelp and then started _moaning_. "Ohh, Dean," he said, "Dean, oh God, you've gotta—you have to come see this—"

Dean stomped into the bathroom, glowering. "For Chrissake, Sammy, _what_."

Sam beamed at him. "I knew that'd get you in here," he said. "Come on, man, bubble-bath! You can clean your guns later, come on and get in with me."

It wasn't like he could resist, or wanted to. Sam was wet, slick with bubbles, grinning at Dean like he'd discovered the secret to happiness. Dean knelt on the floor beside the tub and leaned in for a kiss, Sam's lips curled in a smile against his mouth.

***

The dirt's cold against his hands when he crouches down to dig in it, shoving aside gravel and earth. It's all still chilled from the winter, deep weather freezing the ground and everything below it and summer not close enough yet to thaw it out. Dean wonders if even the molten core of the earth has iced over. Maybe there's no heat left in the universe at all.

The first thing he notices about this incarnation of the Crossroads Demon is her tits. They're just so—and her dress is so low-cut—he can't help himself. It's instinct: chick in front of you, check out her boobs; if they're nice, keep looking. It's like breathing. He does it half-dead, three-quarters drunk, filled up to the brim with grieving.

She catches him at it, of course. "Dean," she says, her voice laden with fake affection.

He says, "I want to make a deal."

Her mouth is wet when she kisses him.  



End file.
